The Unhappy Cannibal
by Casshirek
Summary: Rated R for themes of self-mutiliation, cannibalism and more. Alice has a talk with the Duchess. We learn why she's a cannibal. Chapter 2 up.
1. Default Chapter

Title: The Unhappy Cannibal  
  
Author: Casshirek  
  
Summary: Alice has a talk with the Duchess. We find out the real reason why she's a cannibal. This isn't too canon, like most of my other fanfiction, but a personal intepretation based on what I have seen or heard or read elsewhere. Rated R for themes of cannibalism, self-mutiliation and so on. Be forewarned. All character copyrighted to Lewis Caroll and and American McGee Alice and so on.  
  
* * *  
  
Drip.  
  
"Alice?"  
  
Drip. Drip.  
  
"Alice? Are you listening to me?"  
  
Ten thin red lines of scarlet marked her emaciated arm. Whether it was blood or warpaint, she could no longer care. The flare of pain that accompanied each slash was all she desired, all she cared for. For a little while, the physical anguish drowned the screaming in her mind. Alice drew the butcher's knife across her flesh once more, tracing the path of an ancient scar. Breathless, wide-eyed and as innocent as a child at the carnival, she watched the blade sear a rivulet of crimsom along her skin.  
  
Drip.  
  
Bejeweled stream cascaded into the tall, twisted grass where it was promptly lost. Something rustled within the undergrowth; Wonderland was accepting her gift, her exchange for the silence. There was a flash of smoky grey, the scent of marijuana and nicotine twisting together in an odorous blend even as Chesire made himself known.  
  
"Alice, Alice .. so full of malice, how does the garden of your heart grow?"  
  
"With brambles and thorns, it is a nightmare both dreary and forlorn."  
  
The feline's smile widened into a half-moon of exhultance. "There, see? You can rhyme when you want to. You just never accepted the fact you could." He added slyly, his golden eyes narrowed into slits. "What are you doing, Alice?"  
  
"Thinking." Her attention span had never been long. Prone to a wandering mind, Alice focused on something more pleasurable than enigmatic chatter; her bleeding. With the air of a wary bird, she tilted her arm so the blood would flow more quickly. A disappointing trickle rewarded her efforts.  
  
She drew another, deeper cut.  
  
"About?"  
  
"Everything." Alice elucidated calmly, concentration turned to the bloodless hand. It would not do to have it so pale, so white. It reminded her of her mother's skin. Once upon a time, it had been similarly pale, a porcelain hue like ivory or silk, inviting stray fingers to touch their satin surface. //..Mother...// .. the strokes grew frantic. Burgundy erupted over the outstretched arm, drowning the white in blessed red. "Nothing."  
  
She felt better here, moreso than when she was in the real world, where they kept knives and sharp objects far away from her grasp. They didn't understand .. *there*. All they wanted to do was keep her locked up. They lectured her and drugged her, bound her and scolded her, ranted and raved at her. Intellectually, she knew that all they wanted was the best for her. But it not change the fact that bolted doors could not protect one from nightmares.  
  
Nothing could protect one from nightmares.  
  
Except this ...  
  
"Have you considered the fact you are very very small, Alice?"  
  
//...You're a very small girl, Alice...// Who had said that? In a voice that rumbled like velvet, filled with compassion. The man who had that voice had understood her. Green eyes closed. Reflection brought a strapping figure, always smelling of cigars and expensive cologne, and a pair of emerald eyes not unalike her own. Who was he? Oh yes, her father. Her *dead* father. Burnt alive, incinerated, obliterated in a tangle of flame while she fled like a frightened bunny into the night. How could she --  
  
"Yes." The knife accelerated.  
  
"And very easy to eat."  
  
"Yes." -- have been so horrid?  
  
"Don't you think the other members of Wonderland have figured that by now?"  
  
"Of course I have, silly cat." With arms and apron stained red with memories, she broke through her piteous reverie. Alice gasped; a drowned man taking his first breath.  
  
And paused.  
  
Around her, the garden outside the Duchess's home was innocent - hungry and silent and sinister.  
  
"Who painted the roses red?" Alice inquired politely, lofting her blood- drenched knife as she advanced upon a monstrous rose, a feline shadow mincing along behind her. The flower resonated with a thousand little tremors. More followed suit. "Who painted the roses red, she asked me."  
  
She smiled. "I painted the roses red."  
  
~FIN 


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Unhappy Cannibal  
  
Author: Casshirek  
  
Summary: Neither Alice or Chesire Cat will be in this relatively short chapter. More sorrowful writing from the Duchess's perspective. o_o Uncanonical, to an extent. *flicks a chibi off her shoulder* I need to get out of m'sugar-fluff mood. Do please give feedback people. ^^ I feel like m'doing something wrong here lately.  
  
* * *  
  
"... I need to give you a name."  
  
Shadows cloaked an unpleasant face, modulating the harsh angles and the piercing glare of black eyes. Stubby fingers rested hesitantly on a rounded belly. A smile, rare as the Red Queen's kindess, flickered over wrinkled features.  
  
"A special name." The sleeping face was beautiful to her. They had called her baby ugly. Loathsome, even -- but he was still so very beautiful to her. "So that no one would ever look upon you and call you nothing."  
  
Starlight filtered through the violet drapes, casting silvery lines over the tranquil scene. The Duchess leaned back, careful not awaken the restless child in her grip. After a moment's thought, she tilted forward and brushed a feather-light kiss on the grimacing baby.  
  
"I love you." Butterfly-sweet declaration witnessed only by the silence.  
  
And there was silence.  
  
* * *  
  
// ... Blood.  
  
Incandescent, vivid; molten rubies combined with the finest of liqours, reddest of wines swirling together in an intoxicating blend that puddled at her feet. The dripping would not stop, a delicate and silvery melody in the background.  
  
So much blood.  
  
There was screaming in the distance, a chorus of hysterical cries that struck a chord deep within her. She knew she should fear. But there was nothing like that inside -  
  
... she felt hungry.  
  
And somewhere, at the edge of hearing, there was the sound of a voice, a musical voice interwined with the shriek of a monster, whispering indecipherable thoughts into the depths of her mind. The words were incomprehensible, an alien tongue that her soul could grasp but her mind could not register. It was promising something, promising;  
  
Blood.  
  
She was hungry, hungry and - .... //  
  
The Duchess stirred carefully, a hand pressed against her forehead. Something was wrong. She could feel it in her bones. With care, she rose to her feet, conscious of how small the kitchen seemed. Lingering fragments of her dream began to fade, overwhelmed by the delicious scent that floated through the kitchens.  
  
"Ma'am?"  
  
The Duchess looked down at frail waif of a maid.  
  
//.... crunch her bones, suck her marrow, drink her blood..//  
  
"Yes?"  
  
//... She could almost taste it. All she had to do was reach out and - //  
  
"We're waitin' fer y'to sample our cooking."  
  
She nodded imperiously. This was what they did, what they always did. Such familar things were correct. There was nothing to fear. Was there? The Duchess trundled forward with shoulders back and expression grim, ready to determine the fate of those who subjected themselves to her judgement. The kitchen, smaller than she recalled, was alive with work. Kitchen help was scampering everywhere, whispers of brillant colour that toiled without complaint.  
  
//... all for the eating, all for the eating... //  
  
"What are you doing, boy?" The Duchess pushed aside a sinewy fellow, conscious of the ripple of bones under her touch. They were so delicate. No one was ever made like they were in the old days.  
  
"Cutting the meat, ma'am."  
  
Burgundy drenched the cutting board. Tiny droplets of red have fallen aside, splattering the pristine floor with crimsom stars. The Duchess's brow narrowed into an irritable frown, disliking the messy behaviour of her worker. "Why are you so dirty, child? Careless, careless.. I do *not* run a filthy kitchen. Your wages will be cut."  
  
The boy was petulant. "It wouldn't stop moving, ma'am."  
  
She looked down. Vacant eyes stared from what once was a baby's visage, bulging from within red-rimmed sockets. Flesh and sinew had been removed from plump cheeks, torn away from forehead and chin for one purpose or another. Skull was cracked open; emptied of brain matter and internal fluids. The bones were being dismantled when she interrupted. But in spite of the mutilation, she could recognize the face. Nothing could have ever disguised her own flesh and blood.  
  
//... a voice shrieks in her mind. No, no, no .... //  
  
Dimly, she was aware of a thin wail within her the back of her thoughts, drowned under layers of iron and silk. But it was negatable, as fragle as gossamer. The Duchess licked her lips and nodded approvingly. Was this not what she desired? What this not what she had always wanted? She had never desired to expose her child to the cruelties of the world. What better way to express one's love than to keep the beloved close to her forever? Flesh integrated into flesh, blood merged to blood -- it was the ultimate demonstration of love. This was, this was right. She was certain of it. The screaming that echoed faintly in her head had faded into a blood- touched memory.  
  
"Carry on."  
  
* * *  
  
One bite is never enough.  
  
When nothing remained of the baby, she found that she needed more. Her appetite could not be satiated. The child had been but a morsel. He had not even been a proper snack. His consumption had been ritualistic. It was an act of love. Now, she required to satisfy physical hunger. The solution had been eays, almost too much so - one of the kitchen maids were sacrified to her desires. They had done the same thing to her. They had torn her apart and cooked her and eaten her with the greatest of delight. But she had not been enough either.  
  
The cycle repeated.  
  
And the Duchess grew.  
  
The servant population dwindled with each subsequent feed but the process grew simpler. The Duchess found that she did not need succor anymore and that cooked flesh was repulsive. Meat and pepper, just a little pinch of salt for taste - that was the way kings lived. And she grew some more, as the maids and little boys died. Those who remained felt no inclination to run. They shared her dinners as always, chattered amiably over the qualities of the deceased and continued to live. Cattle, they were, and the Duchess treated them as such.  
  
One day, there was no one left.  
  
But there would be more. There would be a morsel of spectacular proportions, a dainty creature with silken hair and emerald eyes, a darling marinated in the blood of others. This one would be worth the emptiness that thundered within her belly, the hunger that would rage until that day. She, with her gossamer flesh and glowing gaze, would be the finest dish that the Duchess ever sampled. Thus, the Duchess was appeased and she took to waiting for the girl named Alice.  
  
~Fin 


End file.
